Antilogy
by fan-nerd
Summary: Short stories about childhood, love, life, and death. Flonne/Laharl/Etna. Companion piece to Instability.
1. obsession

_A/N: This is a collection of short stories that connect to Instability. You don't have to read Instability first to read this, though. At the beginning of each chapter, there is a rating, pairing, brief summary, and the word count for easy navigation. Thanks for reading!_

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><p><em><strong>Antilogy<strong>_

_n. – a contradiction in ideas, statements, or terms._

/

**i: **_obsession_

**rating:** t

**w/c:** ~1,000 words

**p: **one-sided etna/krichevskoy

**s:** It's such a shame that first love so rarely comes true.

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><p>The little girl watched the king of the Netherworld with intrigued red eyes. When she watched his cape flow elegantly, and saw his curly antennae from afar, she smiled. He was weird and funny, but every time she happened to catch him parading about the little village outskirts, she enjoyed his enthusiasm and dramatic flare. There was one day in her short life that she had nearly met the royal couple, years after watching the King go around trying to talk to demons about love and trust. He was next to a human woman; his newlywed wife.<p>

When she watched the two of them smiling at all the noble demons and greater demons, she felt ill for some strange reason. Her heart hurt, watching the king shine so brightly next to that woman. She beamed and cooed and grinned at even the lowest creatures, and her husband supported her efforts.

Etna slunk into the shadows, hurriedly avoiding the overly pleasant couple. She didn't know what those feelings clawing at her chest were.

/

When she was older, she was still clawing her way through life. She had to steal from other lesser demons to keep herself alive, and her rough lifestyle had made her sturdy. It was a strange coincidence that the king had happened upon her that day, and she was strangely delighted that he was alone. The girl had no idea where his wife was, or why he had deigned to take her to the castle, but she couldn't help fantasizing about the best. He had come to whisk her away from a terrible life alone, or so she thought. Even if she scowled, and insisted that he was a strange old man, her heart sang.

She had heard whispers that the king's wife was dead, and she had stopped smiling. A glimmer of guilt ate at a dark corner of her mind, but the prominent, demonic part brought light into her eyes.

It was like the universe had handed the man to her on a silver platter.

/

The girl listened to _everything_ the man said, no questions asked. It helped that he almost never asked for anything absurd. In fact, his most ludicrous request had been one of his first.

_Take care of my son_, he'd said.

Now _that_ was a disaster. The boy was _nothing _like his father. He wasn't charismatic, or charming; he wasn't gentle, kind, or funny. No, he was a little ball of fire, misplaced aggression, and impatience. He was hateful, aloof, and cantankerous. Even if she wanted to be the _King's_ personal assistant, she was stuck on 24/7 babysitting duty. Prince Laharl had none of his father's lure, and she _had_ to do the boy's bidding to stay on the King's good side.

She knew she was twisting some of the man's intentions. If the king wanted her to take care of his son, it was like saying that he wanted someone to 'replace' the queen, right? If she did as the man told her, it would prove that she was a worthy candidate to stand by his side, supporting him and his unruly, pretentious brat of a son. Another part of her mind knew that, as long as the king grieved for his long-dead wife, she didn't stand a chance. Still, she couldn't give in. Every time she looked up to the regal, she lost her breath.

Her obsession was unnatural, and her constant companion couldn't help being disgusted by this weakness in her character.

/

"I refuse to acknowledge someone who trips over themselves to lick my father's shoes," seven hundred and fifty-nine year old Laharl was being rather blunt to his vassal. "Do you really think all of your useless pining is going to get you somewhere? Get real!"

Etna blushed hotly, and punched the prince with the fury of her embarrassment. "That's not it at all! It's respect – _respect_!" Her mind was rushing underneath the surface. _He wasn't supposed to notice._ "Something I certainly don't have for _you_."

The prince rose to the provocation, and she contented herself in knowing that they were straying from the topic for the time being. "I'll beat some respect into you, you insolent thrall!" He chased her around and burnt the tips of her hair to a crisp, but she found that a thousand times easier to deal with than her feelings.

/

The prince had been right, years ago. Her shameless attempts to garner the king's attention were disgraceful. She was acting like the poor lesser demon she was, despite her many years of service in the castle. There really shouldn't have been any reason for her to lower her standards for the man, thus making her reputation poor, but her heart _ached_ and burned for her to _something_.

What the prince had said to her a week ago was making her re-evaluate her life.

"_Etna."_ The way the prince spat her name out made it sound like it was the worst thing he'd ever said aloud. _"There are ways you could use whatever the hell you think you're doing with my dad to your advantage. Go out in the world and swindle a few demons out of their money. Become a worthy demon. Or, you could keep wasting your time, pointlessly waiting for that idiot to stop pining over a dead woman."_

Etna knew he was right again, but that didn't stop her from wanting to cry out in frustration.

/

She knew it was futile, but she couldn't help the way she felt about the king. Sure, she channeled her emotions in different methods, but in the back of her mind, her dark hopes centered on the fact that she hoped the man would notice her deeds and praise her. Even though she didn't want his love any more, she figured it couldn't do any harm to wish for his affection. The sheer fact that she had noticed that there were things in the world far worthier of her time than chasing a man more than twice her age around for no reason seemed to placate the prince. It was one step in a very long road to moving on from her hopeless first love.


	2. understanding

_**Antilogy**_

_n. – a contradiction in ideas, statements, or terms._

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><p><strong>ii: <strong>_understanding_

**rating:** t

**w/c:** ~1,000 words

**p: **n/a

**s: **Laharl struggles with identity.

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><p>When he was younger, he hadn't realized how 'strange' his aversion to large breasts was. Apparently, according to his fellow demons, the attraction to the female body was largely based around their curves and facial attraction. Contrarily, his father assured him that attractiveness came from inner beauty, but Laharl didn't listen to him about that particular issue – he didn't listen to him on any subject, really.<p>

But really, it didn't matter. Was it supposed to be important at such a young age to be curious about girls? His red eyes flicked to a sharp-eyed ninja that swooped into the castle and his flat-chested _kunoichi_ partner. The duo chatted comfortably, and he quietly hummed his approval.

Why should one of them have been treated differently because of their gender? They both did good work, and that was the only thing he truly cared about.

/

He found his wine-red eyes focused on his father on this rare occasion. He was in the middle of curling his hair to nigh perfection, and putting on some of the ridiculous ruffles he always wore. When Krichevskoy caught his son peeking, he humorously dragged the boy to the vanity table. There were scattered articles of powders and inks, and an array of curling irons.

"Do you want me to do your hair, Laharl?" His father was very careful. It was a tender time in the boy's life, and if he was feeling experimental, it was his father's duty to be supportive.

"I can do it by myself!" Puffing out his cheeks, the little demon struggled with the large iron, and his father pried it out of his small but tight grip with a click of his tongue.

"Just behave yourself for a few minutes, son," The king assured him, smiling as those thin arms crossed on his little chest. "I'll put a little makeup on you, too, if you'd like."

"I said no such thing!" Laharl snarled, but did not move. Glued to the small stool, he was a bundle of nerves, practically jumping out of his seat every time his father's fingers tangled in his unruly locks. The comb ebbed out the periwinkle spikes, and as the soothing gestures finished sorting the tangles, the boy fell into a haze. He dreamily missed long claws powdering his face and accenting his eyes. When his father shook him awake, smiling, he told him to take a look in the mirror.

The boy was astounded. He looked so…_different_. His heart was conflicted over whether he was exhilarated or appalled, so his stomach knotted. "Is it okay, Laharl? I can wash your face if you don't like it."

"Shut up, old man!" Laharl was resorting to petty frustration, so the king figured he pleased, to an extent. "Don't drag me off without warning any more! It's gross."

Small hands played with long antennae and little fingers touched his face like it was a glass sculpture. No matter how strange he felt about the changes, he was in awe that such a transformation had happened without the use of magical power whatsoever.

/

He didn't want to be a woman – that much was for sure. He didn't want breasts, and he reveled in the comfort that came with being able to scour the castle in whatever he wanted to wear. Still, when the time came for the boy to finally express any interest in women, it was decidedly different from the norm.

Laharl was curious about the warriors, and how impressive their track record was. The brawlers, archers, gunslingers, and thieves were no slouches either. The monster females terrified him to a certain extent, but he knew they proved fantastic fighters, albeit coy and overly sexual ones. He wondered if he could fight them on equal terms. He wondered how they could fight in their varieties of clothing, and if he couldn't modify his clothing appropriately.

At some point, he recognized they were onto something, simply binding their mostly-flat chests. He didn't have breasts, so there was nothing to cover, but cutting a shirt out of the picture felt genius. Then, when he looked their lower-halves for inspiration, noting the variety, he found the skin-tight Bermuda shorts of the female fighters more to his liking. They were mobile, and there was no chance to trip over lengthy, plated pants. His stomach quelled when he thought about the thin fabric on his lower half – there weren't any male demons around that wore them, no matter how practical they were. He searched the kingdom for the _right_ pair of shorts, which hung low on his hips, and the least confining on his lower half. Etna laughed at him for his meticulousness, but he didn't care.

He glanced at himself in the mirror, recalling a day long past where his father had made him over, and he tugged at his hair. Something was off. He didn't look anywhere near as regal as some of the women that hung around the castle, nor as wild as his redheaded vassal. How was he supposed to intimidate anyone like this?

/

It was a very, _very_ private hobby. The mage's outfit was loose around his shoulders, and the warrior's belt shorts didn't have enough notches to stay on his waist. His make up was overdone and kind of hideous, but he didn't care. It made him feel good, and nobody was ever to know about such a thing.

Etna was a sneaky girl, and she had found him eventually. After laughing her ass off, she assured him that the hobby wasn't strange, even if she did want to take pictures of him on the rare occasions that she caught him. His father probably knew about it too, but avoided a fight with his son by smartly shutting his mouth on the topic.

"Do you want to become a woman, prince? I'm sure we could find some way, if you really wanted to?" Etna was throwing around an awfully sensitive tone about this, for once.

Laharl's eyes fell and his scowl intensified. "No." His claws touched the plane of glass that he used as his vanity. "I just want to be me."

"Wanna wear the dress outside, then?" His vassal tried, earning another scowl.

"Either shut up or get out, Etna."

/

When he was old enough to declare, with confidence, that he didn't want to become a woman, the hobby had remained a constant annoyance in the back of his mind. Sometimes, he just wanted to slip into something more suited to his small frame (not that he'd ever admit any of the things he thought aloud). In the privacy of secret corridors, concealed closets, and hidden vanities, he gathered more and more outfits, and began to excel in sharpening his features with the use of makeup. Some days, he even wore light make up outside, and earned compliments on how regal he looked, thus boosting his ego even further.

He didn't think of his hobby as a weakness. It made him feel good, but it was something sacred – he couldn't just give away the thrill of such an experience. It was another reminder of his excellence, that he could wear whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and there wasn't a damn thing those demons in the castle could do about it.


	3. interrogative

_**Antilogy**_

_n. – a contradiction in ideas, statements, or terms._

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><p><strong>iii: <strong>_interrogative_

**rating:** m

**w/c:** ~700 words

**p: **Flonne/Laharl

**s: **Understood consent is built through time and familiarity.

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><p>When they had sex, it was like a strange form of Q&amp;A.<p>

_Question: Do you want to have sex right now?_

Laharl burst into her room, yelling about something that held absolutely no consequence to her; he was frustrated about Etna leaving yet again, and he had knocked all of her DVDs onto the floor. When she bickered back with him, he was exceptionally petulant, but his fingers stopped her from storming away, one hand tangled in long blonde hair, and the other clamped onto the sensitive leathery skin of her tail. His eyes burned, but not in his typical way, so she sighed and turned back to him.

_Answer: Yes._

Flonne fell on top of the boy in a carefully planned gesture of clumsiness, and immediately set her fangs for the crook of his neck, leaving a bruising mark. His lithe body shivered beneath her, cool gold bangles rubbed against her clothing while he sought purchase in her hips and forced their bodies together.

_Question: Gentle or rough?_

When she pulled her lips from his neck and tried to kiss him, he wasn't having any of it. In fact, he'd had enough of just trying to grab hold of her by the slippery fabric of her leotard, and he never liked the white smock she sported, so tearing it off came as second nature to him. Her tail stuck up, and she wasted no time in leaving a light scar from his abdomen to his crotch where she'd gotten rid of those stupid shorts.

_Answer: Rough it is, then._

They snarled around kisses and scratches, gasping and pulling and tearing. The young woman grabbed a bottle of lubricant from nearby and shamelessly splattered it over his fingers, knowing how much more it would hurt if she didn't. Her partner pressed in without any warning, and bit her nipple hard enough to hurt when her neck arched back.

_Question: How long can you stand this?_

Flonne clutched his member a little too uncomfortably, but it was payback for going to fast. Her mouth was full of saliva, and her gasps were short and heady. He wasn't reaching her center, so she twisted her hips to meet the thrust of his claws. "Deeper, Laharl, come on," She encouraged him, and he huffed, curling his knuckles and seeking as best as he could.

"Be quiet," He snarled, just as breathless and engaged as she was. Her fingers toyed with him more pleasantly as he found her sweet spot, pumping him rhythmically, with enough pressure to make the boy moan. Their gazes connected, and lips met in a domineering kiss. Her claws raked his ass and she teased. He pulled out of her and snorted into her mouth when she whimpered.

_Answer: Not long._

As their mouths parted, the naked blonde toyed with his rarely exposed neck again, and ground her hips against his member. Laharl's groan was guttural and needy, and he clutched her thighs tightly.

_Question: Do you trust me?_

"Shit, you're always so sentimental," Laharl scoffed as she readied herself to ride on top of him. Flonne hadn't realized asking such a thing would make him turn so red. She smiled. "Stop smiling like that. You're giving me the creeps."

His eyes were open and attentive, and his lips were set in an unsure scowl, so she put her hand over his, which were preparing to lift her up. "It's alright, Laharl. I'm ready."

_Answer: Of course I do._

It was give and take. Laharl had more than enough strength to lift her up and down, do most of the work, but she was an active and vocal participant, murmuring encouragements and sweet nothings until he snarled, pushing her own hips down on him until he howled. They were sweaty and feral, even going so far as to tussle while connected, switching top and bottom uncomfortably, but familiarly. When Laharl finally pushed the blonde to a shuddering release, pulling out and quickly following, she smiled and pushed hair out of his red eyes lovingly. He snarled, affectionately nipping at her nose and lips before slipping into a snore-filled sleep.

Flonne giggled.

_Question: Do you love me?_

When she closed her eyes, pointed ear pressed against the young demon's chest, and he curled an arm around her, the both of them naked and defenseless, she giggled.

_Answer: Don't ask stupid questions._


	4. passing

_**Antilogy**_

_n. – a contradiction in ideas, statements, or terms._

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><p><strong>iv: <strong>_passing_

**rating:** k

**w/c:** ~200 words

**p: **Laharl/Etna

**s: **When you're old, you find that so many things don't matter.

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><p>She was tired often these days. Her tail flicked lazily, and she couldn't even muster up the strength to be furious at the prinnies for doing their jobs incorrectly. In a strange way, they enjoyed following her orders now that she was frail – they knew that messing up in some way would not afford them torture.<p>

He was still energetic, but when he flopped back in his throne after a long day prowling the Netherworld, he knew that things are coming to a close. His faithful vassal pulled herself out of bed and joined him for dinner – a rarity between the pair nowadays.

Etna trailed her brittle fingers in languid circles on the dinner table, smiling peacefully. Her murmurs to the Overlord were full of inside jokes and chortles about days long past. It was hard to believe they'd been together so long.

He leaned over and made fun of her, reminiscing equally. The worlds – demon, human, and angel – were so different than they had been centuries ago. Both of them had thought they would die young, so reckless and unruly, but it was pleasant to pass naturally, old and gray and happy.

They tangled hands after dinner, quietly slipping into dreams. In dreams, they could smile and run, they didn't fight, and they were young again. All of the time they'd spent struggling through life had created their comfortable silence now.

Etna was the first to pass, and she hadn't said goodbye. Laharl hadn't expected her to, but it was lonely in the large castle by himself.

He knew he would not be long behind.


	5. black sheep

_**Antilogy**_

_n. – a contradiction in ideas, statements, or terms._

_/_

**v: **_black sheep_

**rating:** k+

**w/c:** ~400 words

**p: **n/a

**s: **She's always been the strange one.

/

The other angels thought she was _different_, to say the least.

Little hands were always clasped together, and Lamington had brought her under his wing happily. She was curious, and asked questions incessantly that the older angel was more than willing to answer. Her blonde hair was fluffy and she tripped often, blubbering on and on about love and the hero shows she had taken a shine to. When she tried to talk to the other angel trainees around her own age, they thought she was overbearing on the subject of love, and did not exactly share her hobbies. Most of the young women and men put on placating smiles for her, but bitterly thought it was unfair that Lamington showered her with such attention.

Why was she so different from them?

Lamington appreciated Flonne's childish wonder. She truly _believed_ the things that he had to say about loving all creatures equally, and that the power of love would save the world. Her peers, by contrast, respected the Seraph and took his teachings in on a fundamental level, but would never understand like that little girl with wide blue eyes.

She didn't seem to have anyone else she was close to in Celestia, so he grew to expect and anticipate her daily visits. Flonne smiled and had a variety of emotions. He refrained from telling her stories about the world that were negative, hoping that it would keep her refreshing naivety afloat. Sometimes, he threw out hypotheticals, to see how she would react to them, and she responded in a pleasant manner. For the longest time, he wasn't sure why he was keeping those remarks filed away in his mind. When she entered her centuries of adolescence, he had a reason to recall such things, and felt guilty.

Even if Flonne never blamed him – although she would have had every right – he would never forgive himself for manipulating those children for his own gains. So, for now, he let Flonne socialize with her fellow angels, trying to get them to understand each other despite their differences. The techniques she learned would be endlessly useful when she talked to demons. He had learned from Krichevskoy that they were just as stubborn as angels, although they didn't believe they had some holy mission to fulfill.

The girl would be okay. She smiled and eased her way into even the most frigid hearts. Even people who thought she was the strangest angel they'd ever met couldn't help giggling about her pleasantly after they'd met her.

Lamington loved her like his own child, and he would be especially sad to see her go.


End file.
